Why Hermione Granger Shouldn't Drink
by Her Ghost Eyes
Summary: "Why is Seamus in your bed, Ron?" Warnings for potential mental scarring and a slightly disturbing love of coffee.


**This is something I wrote the other day at 2AM in the morning. It's, um, ridiculous and pointless and _not _meant to be taken seriously. **

**But hell, it was fun to write.**

**Proceed with caution, my fellow fanfictioners. **

ooo **  
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As consciousness wrapped its torturous hands around her, Hermione Granger was absolutely positive that she was in the middle of some sort of battle. A battle fought with canons, maybe. Or bombs. Nuclear bombs. Very _loud _nuclear bombs.

However, as she turned to the source of the noise, Hermione realised that she was not caught in the middle of a Muggle war, not about to surrender to the throes of death, but sleeping next to Ronald Weasley.

Wait.

_What? _

It was only understandable that, faced with the flash of fiery hair and very, very _naked _body of Ron, she let out a scream that probably woke up the Slytherins, all the way down in the dungeons.

"'Miiimione," her bedmate mumbled into his pillow with the grace of an undersized ginger cow. "Stop screaming, please."

The noise from her mouth ceased.

But her staring did not.

"Ron," she said carefully, her voice quivering a little. "What are you doing in my bed?"

He pulled his face from the pillow, as if he'd only just registered that he was _on _her bed at all, and slumped back onto the mattress. "Tu zed I fud cause meemus shis in miiii wed."

Hermione nearly cried with relief. "I said you could because Seamus is in your bed?" She frowned at the mass of ginger and asked cautiously, "Why is Seamus in your bed, Ron?"

"'e pucked varvati."

She shuddered, clambering out of her bed. It had been Ginny's idea to have an inter-house party celebrating the end of the war, something to lift everybody's spirits. Even some of the Slytherins had come, hands filled with enough alcohol to fill the Quidditch grounds several times over.

_Slytherins…_

A flash of green robe flickered in her memory. Two musky grey eyes, a smirk.

Carefully dodging groaning bodies strewn across the Gryffindor common room, Hermione slipped out of Gryffindor into the cool halls of Hogwarts. She paused outside, resting her forehead against the wall.

Maybe some pixies had some made their way inside her head and were playing a game of hard core Quidditch. With twenty bludgers.

The Great Hall was practically deserted. A couple of Hufflepuffs were talking avidly over cups of steaming hot coffee. Hermione assumed they were discussing the nature of finding things. That was all Hufflepuffs were good for, right?

Sweet Merlin, had she really just thought that? She sounded like…she almost sounded as bad as _Draco Malfoy. _

Speaking of the devil, that certain Malfoy was sitting at the head of the Slytherin table, eyes downcast. In his hands was the Daily Prophet, which he seemed to be finding greatly amusing.

Probably a first year fed to the giant squid in the lake. Or a handful of Hufflepuffs couldn't find each other while playing a dangerous game of Hide and Seek.

"Something amusing, Malfoy?" Hermione asked, fighting back the urge to punch him merely because her headache was absolutely agonizing and Malfoy was always a great victim to physically attack.

He looked up at her, not looking at all surprised.

"I see you put your clothes back on," he remarked drily. He was staring at her like she was Ravenclaw who'd just gotten a question wrong. "Gods, Granger, haven't you ever heard of a _shower_?"

Of course she'd heard of one. She had them very regularly, commonly accompanied by a bar of lavender soap and occasionally Seamus when she forgot to lock the door.

Hermione glowered at the Slytherin. "Gods, Malfoy, haven't you ever heard of _dignity_?" she sniffed.

Hah! That'd show him. She sat down in the seat beside him and proceeded to make a cup of coffee for herself.

Malfoy was staring at her. "Granger…"

"Yes?"

"This is the Slytherin table."

Hermione beamed at him and began clapping slowly. "Well done, Malfoy! Would you like a gold star?" she cried with joy, taking a sip of coffee and moaning in ecstasy. "Hmm. Nothing better than a good cup of coffee after waking up next to your naked best friend."

Now Malfoy really _was _staring at her. "Wow, Granger, after last night, I knew you had a wild side, but doing the Golden Boy?" He shrugged, returning to his newspaper. "I suppose I could understand. He has a great arse, you know."

Hermione spluttered, spitting her coffee in Malfoy's direction, her eyes watering. He dodged the flying liquid missile, wobbled mid-chair, and clattered to the ground with a _thump._

"Hmmfmf."

"I never knew you…" Hermione choked on her words, fighting back tears of laughter. "...had a…um…_thing…_for Harry."

Malfoy scoffed. "I most certainly do _not _have any romantic inclination to that great bludger of a hero," he remarked from the floor. A drop of coffee made its way down his forehead, settling on the tip of his nose. He licked it off.

"Erm…Malfoy…" Hermione trailed off, mesmerized by the way his tongue slipped out of his mouth and removed the offending tea drop. "What exactly did I do last night?"

"You took off your clothes and started dancing on the Gryffindor common room table."

"…all…of them?"

"Oh, no. You left on your bright pink underwear."

For some reason, that wasn't at all reassuring.

"Those are lovely elephants on them, by the way."

She was never, ever going drink again.

"What else, pray tell, did I do?"

The table was looking awfully interesting. Why did her face feel so hot? No, never drinking again. Ever, ever again. Especially not alcohol that was donated by Slytherins. Anything donated by Slytherins either had to be poisoned, drugged or broken.

Or a Hufflepuff.

"Oh, not much else. Just showing all your womanly moves. Don't worry, everybody was so drunk they probably won't remember."

"_You _remember."

He climbed back onto his chair, brushing invisible dirt off his robes, and met her stare with an unashamed smirk. "I could hardly forget something like that, Granger."

Hmm. Something here didn't seem right –

Was that Seamus Finnegan that just went flying past the window?

No, it was just her imagination. Seamus, flying past windows? Gosh! Seamus was an awful flyer! Why would he –

An uncannily familiar face appeared in the window of the Great Hall, and Seamus grinned widely, waving, before flying off.

Hermione gaped, half expecting the roof to fall in and a pig to make its leisurely way through the air.

Malfoy just returned to his newspaper. "Gryffindors," he remarked, with a shake of his head.

"Um, Malfoy?"

He looked up at her. "Why are you still here?"

"Because there's nobody else here," she pointed out. "And I'm hungover and tired and horny and I _want _to sit here, so shut your face, you white-haired ferret!" She took a deep breath. "Sorry."

Malfoy frowned at her, looking slightly horrified. "My hair is not _white_!"

Okay, that much was true. It was blonde, the sweetest blonde Hermione had ever seen, like the beautiful sunshine as it rose over the hill, rearing its head and blinding everybody in sight with its unbelievable beauty…

Malfoy now look slightly disturbed. "Granger. I didn't know you liked my hair that much."

Shit. Had she been speaking aloud?

"Granger, please leave me in peace. Looking at you this early in the morning makes me want to bury my head in a hole."

Hm. The idea sounded quite appealing to Hermione, actually. Holes were nice and cold, weren't they? Cold…and…soothing…no headaches…

"Why are you still here?"

That was an interesting question. Why _was _she still here? Well, it was because her traitorous feet remained planted into the ground and refused to carry her over to the Gryffindor table.

"Granger. You look sort of ill."

Ugh. Nausea gripped her like a castrating snake.

I'm going to be sick! I'm dying! Oh, I'm dying!

Hermione finally pried her feet from the floor and shot out of the Hall, her coffee falling over once again.

"Bloody Gryffindors," she heard Malfoy mutter, and then a rustle as he turned the page of his newspaper.

_Bare skin, thick eyelashes, a green scarf going flying across the room…_

She paused at the entrance of the Great Hall, turning around. "Hey, Malfoy," she called.

"What now, Granger?"

"Did we, er,_ do_ anything last night?"

He raised his eyes to hers. "Oh yes," he said with an evil smirk. "Yes we did."

And he returned his eyes to that blasted newspaper.

Well, shit.


End file.
